


Crashing

by trueblue94



Series: Oceans [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trueblue94/pseuds/trueblue94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles?” And this time, when he opens his eyes, he can see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crashing

**Author's Note:**

> Dumb HSM reference, just saying that now.
> 
> I didn't intend to write a sequel of any sort, but I had a sudden inspiration this morning and had to write it.
> 
> I'm not a doctor, didn't research anything sufficiently, I'm literally just saying whatever I want because I can and it might not be realistic at all, just like Teen Wolf, but at least I'm not as bad as Jeff Davis, just saying.

When he wakes, it’s to the ocean; waves crashing into the sand, seagulls wailing, and the sun rising over the horizon. He feels nothing at first, no sand between his toes, no water licking at his feet. He remembers the last time and searches frantically, eyes raking the beach, for his mother, but she’s nowhere to be found. His vision starts to fade and he falls, hands reaching for purchase but only able to grasp sand and he can’t catch himself; he’s screaming, gasping, _Where is he?!_

He falls abruptly but feels no impact, his body just suddenly stops. Water flows over him, warm and soothing, but only for a moment. He breathes in and it stops in his throat, choking him suddenly, and it hurts. Hands scrabble against his skin, but they're _not his hands_ , and he _screams_.

Vaguely he realizes there are voices, floating from ear to ear, one he recognizes as his dad's but he's confused, and it's only getting worse. He's in the ocean, isn't he? He can feel coarse sand between his toes, the sun in his eyes; he can smell the salt of the water. Can't he?

“Stiles!” There’s an annoying beeping in his ear that he can’t decipher.

“Sheriff, it's alright, don't be alarmed. The anesthesia is just wearing off and he's confused by the respirator. The doctor will be in shortly to check on him and administer whatever pain medication he’ll need.”

“Will he be alright?” His dad's voice is gruff, exhausted, and worried. Stiles wants to reach out for him. The beach is gone now, there is no longer sand on his fingers, it's dark. He pushes himself to open his eyes, but it doesn't work, they're glued shut. He swallows around the tube in his throat and makes a noise of discomfort, wanting it removed but he can't move his arms. He feels nothing but heaviness, his limbs weighed down; he’s helpless. His dad's hand is in his, a reassuring touch, and he wants to relax but it's too hard. Someone else walks in and they start talking in hushed tones; he makes another uncomfortable noise, but no one removes the snake inside of him.

It only takes a moment before he's given more drugs, and he looks to the side where his mom is reclining on a beach towel. He's sitting in front of her, his feet buried, pail and shovel filled with sand. His dad is walking towards them with lemonade, and he grins.

“Stiles,” the voice in his ear is quiet, and he turns to look at his mom, who raises an eyebrow at him. “Stiles, you have to wake up soon.” His dad hands him his lemonade, and sits down next to his mom, who sits up to meet him halfway, and kisses his cheek. “You need to heal. You need to get better, Stiles, what would we do without you?”

He stumbles up from his position in the sand and looks around, searching for the owner of the voice. He knows it; he has heard it before, a thousand times, but where? Who is it? He turns, and his mom is mouthing his name, _what's wrong baby?_ But he doesn't know, he can't find it. _He can't find it._ What the hell is going on?

“Stiles?” And this time when he opens his eyes, he can _see_.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Derek?” He whispers, throat dry and scratchy from the tube and disuse. The room is dim, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. His head is pounding and his eyes physically hurt.  

There’s a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the room, but when he tries to sit up, he doesn’t get very far. He sighs and falls back onto his pillows, feeling vaguely every little ache in his bones. His mind is swimming in medication and he can’t seem to pin down a coherent thought.

He thinks about finding a button for the nurse and asking for water, demanding answers to the thousand questions he has, but instead he settles on closing his eyes once again and drifting back to sleep. Just as he’s on the edge, he feels something, or someone, lightly touch his left hand, and suddenly his aches are gone. He makes an inquisitive noise, but doesn’t open his eyes. The first time was difficult enough.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Derek says, ending on a sigh.

“Took you a while.” Stiles mutters. Derek doesn’t answer, but Stiles continues. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I came to check up on you.”

“Mhmmm... Sounds very suspicious.”

Derek chuckles once, quickly, before he goes silent again. “You had us worried, Stiles. Everyone was waiting for you to open your eyes.”

“Us? Strange... seems like you care, Sourwolf.”

“Of course I do, you idiot.” Derek’s angry, and Stiles can almost see his face turning into a scowl, his eyebrows pulling together. “No matter what, Stiles, we’re all in this together.” He wants to snort at that, but refrains. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I thought you were dead, when that thing made you crash. Scott was frantic, Stiles.”

Stiles hums in agreement, tapping Derek’s fingers gently with his. Derek must not have realized he was still touching Stiles; he pulled away and took a step back. “How long?”

“Two weeks.” Stiles tenses in surprise. He was out for two weeks?  “It was touch and go for too long. Your dad was terrified.”

His dad. _Shit._ “How would you know that, hmm? You becoming friends with him, now that he knows? You didn’t ask for permission, Derek, that’s just rude.”

Derek sighs. “Your right lung collapsed. You have four broken ribs, a puncture wound, and a concussion, Stiles. They had to put you in an induced coma because of your lung, which they had to do emergency surgery on, and they weren’t sure when you would wake up.”

“Shit.” What else was he supposed to say? Whoops, didn’t mean to impale myself on a tree limb and almost die?

They were both silent for a moment, then Stiles opened his eyes again and motioned for Derek to sit in the chair next to his bed. “Well, if you’re going to hang out here, you might as well get comfortable. This is all your fault too, making Scott and I go out and hunt with you on our bro night, so you get to sit here and suck my pain until I feel better.”

Derek said nothing but obliged and reached across the bed to touch Stiles’s arm. “Are you still in pain?”

No, he was just sleepy now. So much talking and breathing and _existing_ wore him out. “Yeah, loads.”

“Liar.”

“You don’t know me, you don’t know my life!”

Derek chuckled, and Stiles danced internally. He had gotten Derek to laugh twice in an hour, that had to be a world record. “Shut up, Stiles.”

“What?” He mumbled. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear your brain working. Shut it down, go to sleep.”

“Fine, but just for that, you owe me curly fries.” His brain was already winding down, his speech slurring again. For someone who had been out for the count for two weeks, he was still so exhausted.

He fell asleep to the reassuring presence of fingers gently brushing against his skin, and Derek whispering, “I owe you more than that, Stiles. I owe you everything.” He lifted Stiles hand to his mouth and lightly ran his lips over his knuckles, a loving caress, and Stiles would hate himself for it later, but he was too far gone to think about what Derek had just done.

 


End file.
